


Promise

by glitterbrain



Category: Half-Life
Genre: A Pinch of Angst, Hand Jobs, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Selectively Mute Gordon, Shower Sex, mild panic attack from ptsd because black mesa fucked gordon up a little, touch starved barney
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-02-23 10:22:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23943307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitterbrain/pseuds/glitterbrain
Summary: "Barney’s eyes flutter open and meet Gordon’s, and Gordon feels his ribs contract around his lungs as he exhales, his breath leaving him. Barney’s expression is unreadable, a slight furrow between his brows, normally hazel eyes nearly black, and he just stares right into what feels like Gordon’s soul, doesn’t look away -- it’s agonizing, and it feels like the seconds crawl by at a fraction of their usual speed, Gordon’s lungs getting smaller and painfully smaller, searching for something to say, but his already-fickle voice has deserted him altogether."Barney makes it to White Forest.
Relationships: Barney Calhoun/Gordon Freeman
Comments: 29
Kudos: 501





	Promise

**Author's Note:**

> I suppose this is a sliiiight AU in that Gordon and Alyx do not leave for the Borealis immediately after arriving at White Forest; instead they wait a day or two, and this fic happens in that time frame.

Gordon sits at a secluded table in the White Forest cafeteria, trying and failing to eat. His heart is racing, nervous energy leaking out of him in the form of a rapidly bobbing leg and fingers drumming against the table. It’s all he can do not to check the clock every three seconds.

Barney had radioed in and said he and what was left of his group would be arriving at White Forest within an hour. That was an hour and a half ago. Every moment past that hour mark that has dragged by has been agonizing, preventing Gordon from fully focusing on anything else, latent concern always there in the back of his head.

Gordon stands up, unable to keep still or focus on his food. He takes his tray, busses his table, and walks. He has no particular destination in his mind, but walking feels good -- better than doing nothing, better than driving himself crazy. Barney is capable, he knows this, has seen it with his own eyes, but he also knows firsthand how dangerous and ruthless the Combine are, and he wishes, not for the first time, that he and Alyx had been able to join Barney on that first train. The rational part of him knows it turned out better because they didn’t, of course, but the sentimental part of him mourns the lost chance and now, the possible consequences.

He should have at least said something.

“Freeman, please report to the garage,” Magnusson’s voice over the tinny loudspeaker says, and he perks up, his pulse jumping. He immediately makes his way to the garage, where a small group of rebels, Magnusson, and a few vortigaunts are waiting near one of the reinforced garage doors, which is currently open.

“They’re just coming up the hill,” Magnusson huffs as he approaches. “It’s about damn time, too.” For once, Gordon wholly agrees with him.

The rumble of engines heralds the arrival of Barney’s caravan, consisting of two large cargo trucks, both of which are beat to hell and on their last legs, covered in dents and scorch marks. They enter the garage and one of the rebels directs them where to park, and then the engines sputter off and people begin unloading.

There are ten people altogether, five in each van, and for several moments as they all exit there’s a cacophony of noise and movement -- someone in critical condition is loaded from one of the trucks onto a gurney and taken away, and there’s crates of supplies to unload -- Gordon loses track of any specific people or features. And then, with a sensation like an electric shock, he sees Barney. His beard has grown out a little, his hair shaggier and messier than before, and he looks completely exhausted, but he is unmistakably Barney Calhoun.

He makes a beeline for Barney, who, when he notices, gives Gordon a very tired but relieved smile.

“Hey, Doc,” he says. “Sorry we’re late.”

He goes for a hand on the shoulder but Gordon goes for a hug, wrapping his arms around Barney’s chest and squeezing. Barney laughs, wheezing, one of his arms going around Gordon’s neck, but then he makes a strangled groaning kind of sound, his head dropping onto Gordon’s shoulder.

“Shit, I feel… awful,” he says. Gordon tightens his hands into the kevlar Civil Protection uniform Barney is still wearing. Barney coughs. “Think I’ve got a couple cracked ribs, Gordon, go easy.” His tone is light but his voice sounds haggard, like he’s been yelling all day. Gordon steps away, though Barney keeps him close enough to lean on. Magnusson has been talking to the vortigaunts, and now he turns back towards the rest of the group.

“Everyone, follow them,” he says, gesturing to the vortigaunts. “I’ll be meeting with you all to debrief as soon as you’re finished.”

“Wow, letting us go to the medbay _before_ we debrief?” Barney mutters under his breath as they follow the vortigaunts. “Magnusson’s goin’ soft.”

\----

“Really, Gordon, you don’t have to keep hovering around, I’ve got this,” Barney says for probably the half dozenth time, as Gordon sits on a small rickety chair next to Barney’s hospital cot, inspecting him closely as he pulls his gloves off. It’s quiet in the medbay, and there’s only one doctor at the moment -- a vortigaunt who is currently occupied with someone else. “Go find Alyx, I can catch up with you later.”

Gordon shakes his head. “Alyx is busy,” he signs. “Wanted to make a few upgrades to the HEV Suit. Been holed up in the lab with Dr Kleiner all day.”

It takes a few seconds of concentration before Barney comprehends what Gordon is saying to him, and then he nods. “Ohh, so it’ll be, what, the Mark Six after this?” he asks, and then winces and wraps an arm around himself. He looks at Gordon sideways, his expression unreadable, muscles taut. “Help me with this, yeah?” As he sets to work helping Barney shed his CP uniform, Gordon fixes him with a look, one he hopes he doesn’t have to explain. Barney withers, his eyes glossing over, and sighs, the sound of it rattling in his lungs. “Train derailed when the Citadel went haywire,” he mutters, hissing as Gordon pulls the kevlar vest off him and he has to twist. “Lost a bunch of people just from that, and then we were on foot for… God, for at least fifteen miles. Through the forest. Lost a few more people that way. At one point--At one point it actually seemed like it was gonna rain--I woulda pissed myself, y’know that? I haven’t seen it rain in like--anyway, I’m getting offtrack. It did _not_ rain, and--wait _fuckstop_ , Gordon, stop, stop--”

Gordon immediately does so, in the middle of trying to pull Barney’s ratty base layer undershirt up and off. Barney actually seems to panting a little, his skin turning an alarming grayish green color, his forehead damp. He shakes his head.

“I-I don’t think I can… augh--lift this arm,” he says, referring to the hand not currently fisted tightly into the front of Gordon’s shirt. At too awkward of an angle to sign properly, Gordon just makes a scissoring motion with his fingers. Barney nods. “Yeah--yeah, just cut it.”

Gordon reaches into his boot and pulls out a knife; it’s just a small utility knife, nothing fancy, but suitable for the job. Barney eyes it for a moment, eyes unfocused.

“They let you bring a knife in here?”

Taking a moment, Gordon signs, “Being the One Free Man has its privileges,” and hopes his somewhat self-deprecating tone comes across. Barney snorts, laying his good hand on Gordon’s shoulder for support as Gordon starts cutting through the undershirt. It takes some doing -- the material is thick and tough, and Gordon’s knife is a little dull -- but within moments he’s cut right through the middle and is pulling it off. Good side first, so that Barney doesn’t have to move his bad arm more than is absolutely necessary.

Gordon physically locks up when he sees Barney’s state, wavering a little on his feet without the HEV suit to sustain him. It takes a few deep, steadying breaths before his head stops swimming.

Barney looks like complete and utter shit, covered in scrapes and cuts and bruises, dried and crusted-over blood and sweat, angry welts from bullets that hadn’t made it past his CP vest. While one arm is okay aside from superficial damage, his other is covered in scrapes and burns, and his bad shoulder appears to have been punctured -- Gordon immediately recognizes the wound as being from a Hunter. His stomach turns. The wound is angry, bloody, swollen, ragged, almost certainly infected.

“ _Shit_ ,” Gordon says out loud. Barney laughs, but it’s a shaky sound. He grabs the front of Gordon’s shirt again, twisting it in a white-knuckled grip. He looks like he’s about to pass out.

“You said it.”

Gordon shakes his head. Doctor. They need a doctor. Right now. Why had Barney not made it clearer the severity of his injuries? How had Gordon not noticed? His throat feels swollen shut, lungs too small to draw full breath, dark spots pricking at the corners of his vision. He stumbles a little, dropping to his knees in front of Barney, who grabs his shoulder with his good hand.

“Gordon, hey, you okay?”

Gordon drops his head and it lands on one of Barney’s knees. The hand on his shoulder squeezes, fingers shaking.

“Gordon. Stay with me, alright? Wouldn’t do for the doc to come in and have us both passed out.”

Focus.

Need to focus.

Gordon shuts his eyes, takes a few deep breaths, lets his blood pressure even out again. While he’s down here, he decides to make the most of it, setting to work unlacing Barney’s boots.

Barney laughs, another shaky and shallow sound, but as long as it’s _any_ sound, Gordon is okay with it. “Sorry in advance,” he says. “Haven’t taken my shoes off in like, weeks.”

_You and me both_ , Gordon wants to say, but his hands are busy. He yanks Barney’s boots off and throws them aside, into the growing pile of Shit To Be Burned With A Vengeance, tries not stare at how fucking awful Barney’s feet look, swollen and bruised and blistered, just stands up and starts working Barney’s belt.

“Hey, whoa, Gordon, at least take me out to dinner first,” Barney says lightly. Gordon fixes him with a deadpan look. Barney gives him a shit-eating grin, but then he winces, chest heaving as he takes a breath. Using Gordon as a counterweight, he leans back until he’s laying, allowing Gordon to continue. After undoing his belt, Gordon gives his waistband a tug and Barney lifts his hips to let Gordon pull his pants off, leaving him in his underwear. Gordon almost laughs -- this is, perhaps, the least sexy undressing of anyone he’s ever taken part in -- but it has to be done. The uniform is in useless shambles and Barney is going to have to endure what will almost certainly be an invasively thorough check up, considering the state he’s in.

Barney lays on the cot, just staring up at the ceiling and breathing. He looks completely exhausted, the rings under his eyes nearly black. “We walked right into an ambush, ‘bout ten miles before we got here,” he says. His voice is quiet, brows furrowed. “So stupid. It was so obvious. And I didn’t… I didn’t even notice. Least those trucks were still running after the smoke cleared, or I don’t think we would’ve made it.”

‘We’ he says, but Gordon suspects he’s talking about himself.

Gordon sits on that rickety chair again, trying to find something to say or do that might help, but a not inconsiderate part of him suspects the best treatment will be medical attention, a long sleep, and time to process. Nothing he can say will make Barney’s pain any easier to bear right now. He reaches out and grabs Barney’s good hand, squeezing gently; Barney squeezes back.

The doctor finally enters into the sectioned off area around Barney’s cot, and for the first time since Barney arrived Gordon can breathe freely and think clearly. Having a vortigaunt treat him means the worst of Barney’s injuries are rendered superficial or cosmetic, meaning a number of worst-case scenarios can be forgotten and moved past. He is still physically exhausted and sore, but at least Gordon doesn’t have to worry about him dying from his wounds in the immediate future.

After going through a general check up to ensure there aren’t any other problems and that all is well, Barney settles onto the cot properly and almost immediately falls asleep. The vortigaunt lays a small thermal blanket over him.

“We suspect the Barney Calhoun will be asleep for a number of hours,” the vort says, turning to Gordon. “We will monitor his vitals. He will be fine. The Freeman should not feel obligated to stay.”

Gordon blinks, unsure of how to respond. He’d been so caught up in the moment, in just making sure Barney was alive and going to remain that way--he hadn’t thought this far ahead. Now, pulled back into the larger-scope reality, he tries to remember if he should be doing anything.

The vortigaunt hums thoughtfully. “Perhaps, if the Freeman wishes to be of use, he could procure a change of clothes for the Calhoun,” it says. Gordon nods, because he really does wish to be of use, has always disliked being idle when something needs doing. Being given a task to complete makes him feel good, like he’s contributing.

He shakes his head to himself, leaving to find some clean clothes.

\----

All in all, Barney sleeps for a solid fourteen hours. Gordon, having settled nearby reading over what little documentation Kleiner was able to give him about the Borealis, doesn’t realize he’s awoken until he tries to push himself up and groans in pain.

“Eurgh--damn--forgot.”

Gordon looks at him inquisitively, not sure if he should try to help or not. Gingerly, Barney pushes himself up the remaining distance into a sitting position. He looks at Gordon, eyes still bleary from sleep, but the rings underneath them have faded to a more agreeable color, as have most of his bruises.

“How long was I out?” His voice is even raspier than before, and after he finishes his question he smacks his lips with an amusingly exasperated look on his face as the taste of his own mouth becomes more apparent.

“About fourteen hours,” Gordon signs.

“What’s the time?” Gordon gestures at the clock above Barney’s head that he evidently didn’t notice until now, following Gordon’s gaze. It reads just past eleven. “AM or PM?”

“PM,” Gordon signs. Barney nods, turning stiffly to look at his bad shoulder, which, although the open wound has been mended and the swelling has lessened, is still covered in disconcerting purple and brown bruises. He sets his fingertips over the new scar.

“Whaddaya think, Doc? Ruggedly handsome?” he asks, looking at Gordon under his lashes.

Gordon’s cheeks twinge with heat, but if he’s blushing, Barney doesn’t seem to notice.

“How do you feel?” Gordon signs.

It takes Barney a few seconds to reply, apparently taking stock of his physical state. “Better. Still sore as hell, though, but at least I can move without wanting to throw up, right?” Experimentally, he twists and stretches, testing out how painful each movement is. Given the ever-present grimace on his face as he does so, Gordon takes that to mean Above Average. “Is the doctor still around? I, uh… I gotta take a piss, but I don’t wanna get up if it means I have to listen to cryptic vort scolding.”

“I’ll look,” Gordon signs, and goes to find the doctor.

It takes a few minutes of searching, but Gordon does eventually find the doctor, who gives Barney the all-clear for a trip to the showers so long as he returns afterward, though when Barney actually attempts to stand up and _move_ , he finds his muscles still too stiff and painful. Gordon, unable to stop his natural tendency towards needing to help, slides an arm around Barney’s back, and Barney’s arm wraps around his shoulders, and like that they’re able to head to the showers. It is, thankfully, a short trip, given that Barney is still stripped down to his underwear under the tattered old robe the vortigaunt gave him, though he doesn’t seem to care either way, mostly thankful to be out of that CP Uniform.

The showers of White Forest are not unlike a standard locker room, even down to the presence of several old lockers which don’t see much use anymore. This late at night, the place is empty. Testing his weight, Barney pushes off Gordon’s shoulders and just sort of… stands for a moment, swaying slightly.

“I… I think I’m alright,” he says at length. While he relieves himself, Gordon makes himself useful and sets the change of clothes on a bench nearby one of the showers, as well a toothbrush, toothpaste (it’s shitty and overly-sweet, cheaply and carelessly produced like everything the combine supplied in their half-assed effort to quell civil unrest, but it does at least _exist_ ), and a razor he’d managed to find. When Barney makes his way over, Gordon refers to them with a slight flourish. Barney snorts.

“So this place has running water?” he asks.

Gordon holds up his hand, wavers it. _Kinda_. Barney’s smile widens nonetheless.

“Hey, beggars can’t be choosers, right?”

Gordon grins, but Barney suddenly seems to waver -- not weakly, but somehow unsure. He chews at his lip, his brow furrowed.

“Uh… Gordon, I’m… not sure how to ask this, but I… I’m not sure if I can…” He trails off, uncharacteristically bashful, but Gordon gets the gist of it. He leans into Barney’s line of sight and him a thumbs-up, and he looks marginally more comfortable. “Sorry,” he says.

Gordon shakes his head, pulling the curtain on one of the shower stalls back and handing Barney the toothbrush and toothpaste.

“Oh my God! I’ve never been so happy to see a _toothbrush_ ,” he says, squeezing the toothpaste onto it and popping it into his mouth. While he’s brushing his teeth, he shimmies out of his underwear -- a feat easier said than done given that he can barely bend over without wincing in pain -- and turns on the shower. “Fuck, that’s cold!” he shouts, mouth still full, and Gordon laughs at the speed with which Barney recoils, sudden adrenaline masking pain and stiffness.

By the time Barney has finished brushing his teeth, the water has subsided to… not hot, but near lukewarm and at least tolerable, and he steps back under the weak spray, front first, rubbing at his face.

Gordon follows him, pulling the curtain shut and standing just outside the spray’s reach. He had agreed to help Barney mostly to be helpful, but now, standing in the shower with him, even though he’s still fully clothed, he feels that same heat from before creeping into his body. Barney is not bad-looking by any stretch of the imagination, even now at forty-something (and God, what a thing to think about, that they had been the same age once, somehow both literally and figuratively a different life -- it hurts his head to linger on it), still so much like he was at Black Mesa, but filled out more, broader and stronger, with a self-surety and confidence that comes from lived experience. It’s undeniably attractive, that quiet maturity plus Barney’s natural, easy charisma -- the endearing gray hairs and the additional lines around his eyes when he smiles just serve to further the effect, and damn Gordon to a confusing attraction to someone he’d once considered nothing more than a close work friend, but who is now, after everything they’ve gone through since City 17, undeniably something more.

He’s just not sure _what_ yet.

The sound of the automated soap dispenser jolts him back to the present, and he blinks, focusing. Barney is attempting to shave in the small mirror fixed to the wall, but given that he’s using his bad arm, is not having much luck.

“Damn,” he mutters, though he doesn’t sound overly put out. “I’ll never take this arm for granted again.”

Gordon snorts and holds out his hand. Barney eyes it for a moment, then meets Gordon’s eyes. Gordon makes his expression even more pointed, emphatic. Barney hands him the razor.

“Don’t cut me, yeah?” he says.

Gordon snorts again. His hands currently busy, he clears his throat, waiting for his voice to come round.

“I’m pretty sure I know how to shave a face, Barney,” he says at length, and Barney looks only momentarily off-put before he quirks an eyebrow.

“Except for the goatee part,” he says, pushing his fingers into Gordon’s face and gesturing to his beard. Gordon allows himself to smile as he twists away from Barney’s prodding fingers, and continues undeterred, grabbing Barney’s chin and pushing his head to the side.

“Hush. Can’t do it while you’re talking.”

Barney does hush, thankfully, allowing Gordon to make quick and efficient work of his cheek, jaw, and neck while trying to ignore how bodily close he comes whenever he reaches over Barney’s shoulder to rinse the razor, how their shared body heat lingers between them. Still holding his chin, he pushes to the other side, and Barney complies, letting his eyes drift shut while Gordon continues, tries not get distracted by the sudden realization that those endearing gray hairs have made it to Barney’s eyelashes as well.

Gordon swallows, twists Barney to face him, shaves his upper lip and his chin, trying very hard not to dwell on how pink Barney’s lips are, or the subtle but handsome laugh lines around the corners of his mouth.

Barney’s eyes flutter open and meet Gordon’s, and Gordon feels his ribs contract around his lungs as he exhales, his breath leaving him. Barney’s expression is unreadable, a slight furrow between his brows, normally hazel eyes nearly black, and he just stares right into what feels like Gordon’s soul, doesn’t look away -- it’s agonizing, and it feels like the seconds crawl by at a fraction of their usual speed, Gordon’s lungs getting smaller and painfully smaller, searching for something to say, but his already-fickle voice has deserted him altogether.

Finally he nudges Barney’s head up, in pretense for finishing shaving his neck, though he does kind of a shitty job given that his hands are shaking, but then he can pull away and let his lungs expand again.

Barney inspects himself in the mirror as Gordon tosses the razor out onto the bench. He looks satisfied, but doesn’t say anything, and Gordon wishes he would, because whatever just happened now feels like a thousand-ton weight hanging over them.

The soap dispenser buzzes again and Barney sets to work scrubbing himself down, stiffly and in evident pain. Without letting himself think about it, Gordon takes half-a-step forward, catching the spray of water but past caring, and puts his hand under the dispenser, then grabs Barney’s wrist and lifts his arm enough to scrub at it properly. Barney finally cracks into a smile, though it’s noticeably more weary and sheepish than usual.

“God, Gordon… What’d I do to deserve you?” It’s said casually, almost a joke, but his hand twists and his fingers brush Gordon’s arm. “What’d any of us do to deserve you?”

Gordon fixes him with a deadpan look, hoping that if there’s a flush to his cheeks the relative heat of the water could serve as an excuse. He swallows. “This is kind of… all my fault in the first place,” he mutters, moving to Barney’s other arm.

This time it’s Barney’s turn to fix him with a deadpan expression, mixed with some amount of concern. “What, because you were the one who _happened_ to be in the test chamber that day?” Gordon doesn’t respond, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn bit of grime on Barney’s skin. Barney’s free hand fidgets, fingers flexing. “Gord, you know that’s a bullshit line of thinking, yeah?” he says at length, softly. Gordon shakes his head, but his mouth quirks up at the… nickname? Whatever that was. “It could’ve been anyone in there and things still would’ve gone the same.”

Gordon finishes with his arm, turns him around to get at his back because running his hands down Barney’s bare chest in the shower feels a step too far. “Maybe,” Gordon concedes, running his hands in circles over Barney’s shoulders, down to his shoulder blades, his mind wandering. If it had been someone else in there, would it still have been Gordon that ended up being stalked by some apparently all-powerful, godlike entity in the shape of a man? Would it still have been Gordon who ended up in stasis, in forced helplessness, for twenty years while the world went to shit and all his friends and colleagues lived their lives without him? If it had been someone else, maybe at least he wouldn’t feel so damn guilty about surviving, always haunted by the people he wasn’t able to help, wasn’t able to save, all the people he’d had to kill.

“Gordon?”

Gordon shakes his head, trying to pull himself back to the present but not quite able to get there; in his mind he still sees the faces of everyone he’d seen die -- whether by his lack of action, lack of skill, lack of timing, or by his own hands. Fire and smoke filling his lungs, bullets singing his hair and his skin, electricity washing over him and lighting all his nerves up like needles--

“Gordon, hey, stay with me.” Barney’s hands tighten around his arms, shaking back and forth, and Gordon squeezes his eyes shut, gives his head another shake. “Breathe, alright?” He does so, inhales warm, humid air, smelling like soap and skin. He opens his eyes and looks at Barney through his water-streaked glasses, focusing. Barney quirks an eyebrow. “You with me?” he asks after a moment.

Gordon blinks, and then pulls his glasses off to pinch the bridge of his nose, huffing out a laugh despite himself. “Did I really just…”

“Have a mild panic attack in the shower with me?” Barney’s voice is light and somewhat sarcastic, but his hands are still on Gordon’s arms, tight and unyielding. “Yeah, you did.”

Gordon laughs, snorting. “Sorry.”

Barney shakes his head. “Eh, what’s a panic attack in the shower between friends, yeah?”

Gordon just laughs a little harder, perhaps an effect of tension leaving his body, and slides his glasses back on, able to see again. Barney is studying him, those dark, dark eyes of his boring into Gordon’s again, and Gordon’s heart suddenly jumps into his throat, his stomach twisting as the mood takes yet another hundred-and-eighty degree turn. As if of their own accord, Gordon’s hands travel up to latch onto Barney’s arms where they cross the gap between their bodies, squeezing. He’s shaking -- God, but he’s got it bad, doesn’t he? Has he just not noticed until now? How had it escaped him so long? He wonders if Barney can feel it, feel that trembling transferring into his muscles.

He finally breaks eye contact, letting his gaze drop to Barney’s chest, still covered in scars and welts but clean and broad and covered in that same salt-and-pepper hair as the rest of him. Still shaking like a fucking newborn calf, Gordon reaches out with one hand and presses it flat against Barney’s chest; his skin is warm, and beneath his palm he can feel Barney’s heart thumping abnormally fast.

They don’t seem to consciously or purposefully move so much as drift into one another, mouths suddenly meeting in a tentative and unsure kiss. Barney’s hands squeeze tighter around Gordon’s arms, Gordon’s other hand landing on Barney’s chest as his balance shifts, and he kneads the skin under his palms, brushes his fingers through that fine hair, tracing Barney’s collarbone with his fingertips.

Barney breaks away as he does so, sighs a long exhale, warm and wet on Gordon’s neck, his lashes fluttering as he opens his eyes, ears and cheeks flushed.

For a moment they just stare at each other, and then Barney laughs, one of his hands finally leaving Gordon’s arm to run through his own hair. “I, uh…” He chews his lip, jaw working; for once he’s not looking directly into Gordon’s eyes, instead staring at his mouth. “I missed you, Gordon,” he says. Like usual, his tone is light but sincere, with un undercurrent of something Gordon can’t identify but files away to pursue later. For the moment, however, he slides his hands high up on Barney’s shoulders and squeezes, latching his fingers round the back of his neck and pulling him in again.

Barney kisses him like he’s starving, lips and tongue and teeth all working in tandem, like he’s trying to eat Gordon rather than kiss him, all instinct, desperation, and in the back of Gordon’s mind something flickers, something both Breen and Kleiner had mentioned about… suppression fields.

He pauses, pulls away, hands still on Barney’s neck, and Barney looks up at him with hooded eyes and those pink, pink lips.

“Sorry,” he says, apparently somehow reading Gordon’s thoughts -- either that, or Gordon is so obvious about said thoughts that it broadcasts into explicit body language and facial expressions. Barney’s grin goes crooked. “‘S been a while.”

Gordon shrugs, but pulls Barney’s face closer to him -- not to kiss his mouth, but rather his cheek. Barney’s eyes close, lashes tickling Gordon’s skin as he kisses his eyelid, and then between his brows, and then the other eyelid, followed by his other cheek, all the while listening to Barney’s shaky breathing in his ear. He nudges Barney’s head to the side, continues where he left off, pressing open-mouthed kisses down Barney’s pulse point, which jumps in response, hands twisting into the front Gordon’s shirt.

“Oh my God,” Barney mutters weakly, voice shaking. Gordon grins, emboldened, gets a hand more securely around the back of Barney’s neck and squeezing as he latches his mouth to the opposite side, lathing his tongue over freshly-cleaned skin, biting down just enough that Barney can feel it, and he’s rewarded with Barney making a very undignified sort of strangled groaning sound that dissolves into a breathless laugh. “Jesus, Gordon -- is this what they teach at MIT?”

Gordon laughs as Barney’s head thumps onto his shoulder. He lets his hand slide into Barney’s wet hair, other arm wrapping around his shoulders, and Barney melts into it, hands sliding from his front around to his sides, hesitating there for a moment before finishing their circuit around his back and pulling him close.

Gordon becomes aware of several things, suddenly:

First, that he is now thoroughly wet and wearing his clothes into the shower stall had been a silly idea from the start.

Second, that they are wasting water, and have been for some time, though he can’t bring himself to care.

Third, that even though it’s kind of only been “a week or so” since he last saw twenty-something Barney at Black Mesa before all of this happened, some part of him aches with the weight of twenty years of separation, some deep part of his soul slightly less affected by the stasis that can _really feel_ how much time has actually passed.

Fourth, this newfound part of his soul seems to expand exponentially and threaten to consume the rest of his faculties, because all of the sudden all he can think about is how much he never wants to let Barney go, how he never wants to even move from this shower stall, how much he just wants to stand here and make up for all the fucking time they’ve lost.

Fifth -- and this is what finally makes him move, even despite his previous thoughts -- there is something pressing conspicuously into his hip, and it takes him all of half a second to register what it is.

He pushes away just enough to blink at Barney, and then his eyes flit downwards to where their hips are perilously close to touching, and, yes, Barney’s dick is in fact half-hard and interested.

“C’mon, Gordon, you were the one sucking on my neck just like ten seconds ago, you expect me _not_ to get a boner?” Once again Barney’s voice is light and jokey, but undercut with something more serious, something adjacent to insecurity. Still, Gordon shakes his head and yanks Barney closer, into another kiss, this time one he tries to match Barney’s intensity in. He’s not much of a match, given one of their dry spells can be measured in months and the other’s in twenty-odd _years_ , and Barney once again gives himself away in how he nips and licks at Gordon’s lips, how his hands grasp at Gordon’s back and hips, always wanting more, closer, how he keeps making those amazing noises in the back of his throat.

Barney’s hands slide under the hem of Gordon’s shirt, and Gordon’s shivers, his mind snapping back to reality for a moment. Clothes -- he’s still wearing his clothes -- why is he still wearing his clothes? Why had he worn his clothes into the shower stall to begin with--

He nods and Barney yanks his shirt off over his head while Gordon kicks off his shoes and socks, and then hops ungracefully out of his pants. He’s barely out of them before Barney pulls him back over into a bruising kiss, and the sensation of bare skin on skin makes Gordon’s gut twist. With no shirt to grab, Barney instead skims his fingers down Gordon’s sides, calloused fingers pressing into the divots between his ribs, keeping him as close as possible, so flush it’s hard to breathe. His hips tilt reflexively, instinctually, his cock dragging along Gordon’s hip, hard and heavy, and Gordon breaks away to slip his hand down between them.

Barney groans when Gordon gives him a few experimental tugs, nestling his face in the crook of Gordon’s neck and kissing blindly, muttering under his breath.

“OhmyGod ohmyGod ohmyGod Gordon please don’t stop--”

Gordon shifts so that he’s at a better angle and quickens his pace; Barney lets out another one of those low moans, muscles stiffening and arms locking around Gordon’s back, precome leaking over Gordon’s fingers, and it’s messy and slick and so _good_. Doing his best to split his concentration, he presses his face into Barney’s neck, kissing at first and then licking again like before, biting into the meat of Barney’s throat and sucking.

“Fucking _hell_ \--” is all Barney can manage to say before he suddenly comes with a gasping, staccato moan, pulsing hard in Gordon’s hand, and Gordon keeps moving, keeps licking, until Barney’s fingernails are dug so hard into his back it hurts. “Gordon--” It’s the last actual word he says before babbling nonsense, still twitching and shaking and riding it out.

Finally one of his hands dislodges from Gordon’s back and swats at his wrist instead. “Okay, uncle, oh God-- uncle--”

Gordon laughs, conceding, letting Barney go to focus on his own arousal, now aching insistently between his thighs. It takes a few more seconds of breathing before Barney’s wits apparently return to him, and then he nudges Gordon’s hand out of the way to take over.

Gordon feels like he’s been kicked in the chest, heat skittering through his veins and twisting low in his stomach, Barney’s large, rough hand so unlike his own. Gordon kisses him again and this time they are more evenly matched, Gordon biting at Barney’s swollen lips, chasing the heat of his mouth, gasping each time the tension between his legs coils tighter.

Barney’s other hand traces his spine, blunt nails scratching over each vertebrae in turn until he reaches the small of his back and further still, to Gordon’s ass, squeezing and humming in approval when Gordon gasps, hips snapping forward into Barney’s fist. His head swims, heart pounding in his ears.

“C’mon, Gordon,” Barney murmurs, his free hand sliding into Gordon’s hair, nails scratching his scalp. “This is my fucked up arm, I can’t keep going for too long.”

Gordon laughs, broken and panting. “Barney, _God_.”

Barney kisses the corner of his open, panting mouth, clumsily, but it’s that that pushes him over the edge, that moment of laughing at Barney’s smartass remark while simultaneously being jerked off by him, and Gordon comes with a soundless, breathless gasp, head spinning, heart racing, every muscle in his body pulled taut.

Both of Barney’s arms loop around his back again, squeezing as he nestles is face into Gordon’s shoulder. They stand like that for a few moments, just breathing, as Gordon’s thoughts even out, the blood pulsing in his ears quieting.

“I promise I’m not usually that much of a pushover,” Barney says, his voice muffled, shoulders shaking as he laughs. Gordon twists his head to kiss Barney’s ear, pressing his nose into his hair, and Barney shivers. “Been a long time.”

Gordon grins, squeezing him back, then pushes away enough to give him one more kiss, slow and lazy. “Guess you’ll have to prove it to me next time, huh?” he says, and Barney lets out an amusing cross between a whimper and a laugh.

“You’re gonna give me a heart attack, Doc.”

\----

They take their time on the trip back to the medical wing; the warm-ish water and the hormones have helped Barney’s tension and stiffness a little, but Gordon still slides his arm around Barney’s waist, both for support and because he likes the feeling of Barney’s muscles under the thin blue henley he’s now wearing.

They talk as they walk, Barney telling Gordon some stories about his own escape from Black Mesa, about early Combine occupancy and the formation of the resistance. It’s strange to hear him talk about them with such relative ease, with sometimes only the tiniest tics, like the hitch in his breath or the way his voice catches over a certain word or name, giving his underlying sadness away. But it seems to be somewhat cathartic, and Gordon enjoys listening and learning, and his understanding of the world grows. He also tells Barney about Aperture Science, the Borealis, and his and Alyx’s upcoming journey to find it.

When they reach Barney’s cot in the medbay, he collapses onto it sideways with a weary sigh. All told, they’ve really only been gone maybe forty-five minutes, but that seems to have been enough exertion and movement for his muscles for now. Gordon lies down next to him, his legs hanging off the side of the bed. Barney is staring up at the ceiling, looking thoughtful, stomach rising and falling as he breathes.

“Y’know,” he says, slowly, as if he’s picking his words carefully. “No matter whose fault this whole shitshow is -- i-if there’s anyone to blame at all -- I’m really glad you’re here, Gordon.” His hand slides over to meet Gordon’s, resting palm-to-palm, his thumb brushing over Gordon’s wrist. Gordon can’t think of any response, not sure how to feel or what to think and trying not to chase the rabbit of his own rumination. Barney turns his head to face Gordon. “When are you and Alyx heading out?”

“Tomorrow. Can’t waste any time.” Gordon turns his head, not fully, but enough to look at Barney sideways. Barney’s mouth quirks, not quite a smile.

“Wish I could come with,” he says. “Sounds like it’ll be a hell of a journey.”

_I wish you could come too_ , Gordon thinks but doesn’t say, because he _doesn’t_ want that, would much prefer Barney stay here and recover and be relatively safe. “I’ll send a postcard,” he says instead. Barney laughs.

“Just uh… Promise you won’t wait twenty more years to come back, yeah?” he says. Gordon’s chest aches, a strange tight lump in his throat forming. He turns and kisses Barney, slow and languid, trying not to think about how much time they’ve lost, how much he’s going to miss this, how utterly trivial this lovely new intimacy will have to be when his priority is forced to shift to the Borealis and whatever comes after. It’s strange, that something that feels so all-consuming, something that fills his senses and faculties, makes his heart flutter and his brain feel so _alive,_ can be so insignificant in the grand scheme of things. The size of the universe bears down on him.

He slides his fingers around Barney’s hand and squeezes, burns this moment into his brain, into the backs of his eyelids. “Promise.”


End file.
